Babies on a Plane

Brace yourself; this post will be hard to read. There are several reasons for this. One, it is a highly triggering and controversial topic. Ever since the New York Times posed the question, “should babies be allowed in first class” our most primal and visceral arguments have come out on both sides of the argument of whether or not babies should be allowed on planes at all.

I will spare you the agony of wondering what my opinion on the matter is and skip to the endpoint: Have compassion for others because you just don’t know what they are going through. I decided to present my central point first, in case you would like to skip the next part, because now I will recount the details of the worst flight of my life.

I got the call that my husband had died on March 24th, 2022. In a blur, my friends and family were scrambling around me to figure out how I would get back to LA from Maui, where I was visiting to help care for my ailing father. At that point in my dad’s treatment, I was one of his last lines of defense. Taking him to the hospital daily, talking to and translating doctor’s orders. Managing the expectations of his landlord, as his living situation was precarious. All the while with two boys under 5 on my hip. It was a nightmare. And now I had to drop all that and tend to the most vicious of monsters. Getting back to LA to manage the aftermath of my husband’s death.

Should my best friend come to Maui first to pick us up and return with us? Should my mom come? Should my sister come? How long would they stay? I admit that even remembering these events to write this blog is causing me a tremendous amount of anxiety. A muscle memory of anguish and shock. We decided that my mom would come back with us and that my best friend should stay in LA to answer the question that still haunts me today. Who should pick us up from the airport?

I had decided not to tell my almost 5-year-old about the tragedy until we returned home to LA. Somehow I knew that if I told him while we were still on Maui, he would forever associate this place with his father’s death. Even then, I knew we would eventually move back here to face the future, and I didn’t want this place to be tainted with grief. I thought I should tell him with the stress of travel behind us. But this choice left me with one insurmountable challenge.

Getting on that plane was a complete blur. There was no way I could meticulously pack the diaper bag with the appropriate treats and tricks I usually would. The things I knew could help distract or calm a screaming baby and toddler on a long flight were not things I was worried about. I didn’t have time to buy a “new toy” so that when the restlessness set in, I could bring it out of the bag to spare the other passengers the plight of hearing a baby cry. I didn’t have the foresight to download a few new apps on the tablet to satisfy the boredom that strikes 3.5 hours into a 5-hour flight. There was no way I could prepare other than just to get everyone on that plane. I didn’t have “the favorite snacks” stocked; I had nothing but the knowledge that my husband was dead and that I had to find some way to distract my son from the event I was most dreading. Our arrival at LAX.

From the moment we took our seats, when the plane began to move, my eldest could say only one thing: “We’re on our way home to see Daddy!”

I sat in that seat; it was everything I could do to breathe. How could I face my son? What would I say to him when we landed and daddy wasn’t there?

Each mile we flew made me feel like the walls were crashing in. We were still required to wear masks on the plane at that time, and if there ever was a time I felt like I could not breathe, it was then. The closer we got to LA, the hard it was for me to keep it together. At one point, another passenger asked my mom if I was ok because I was hyperventilating and sweating. We would be landing in a world vastly different from the one we left. A world where my two boys will never again see their father. The last thing on my mind was how to stop my kids from being kids on a plane.

I don’t remember much else of that day. I don’t know whether my baby cried when his ears wouldn’t pop; I don’t remember if anyone looked at us sideways because we were being too loud or bumping the seat in front when trying to get yet another dropped lego off the floor. I do remember the pain of reaching baggage claim and falling into the arms of my best friend while trying to keep it together. I remember arriving home and seeing the apartment just as my husband had left it. I remember my son asking where daddy was as we put on his pajamas. I remember calmly saying, “daddy isn’t here,” as I tucked him into bed and prepared myself for the following morning when I would break the news to him.

The idea that there is even a debate about whether babies should be allowed in first class (and subsequently on planes at all) proves to me that this world is profoundly lacking compassion. Had I been in a place where we could have afforded first-class tickets, why shouldn’t I have been able to have that infinitesimal increase in comfort because I happen to be traveling with people whose brains are still developing? In a world so triggered by the injustices inflicted upon underserved, underrepresented, and less privileged communities, we miss the one that needs us to stand up for them the most. Children are so often treated like second-class citizens. It does not matter if you have chosen to become a parent or not. A mother with a crying child on a flight who seems to be letting her children run amok might be having the worst day of her life, and taking a deep breath from your seat while you give her some grace, is 100% free.